


Making Room

by hostagesfic



Category: Little Mix (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bumping knees and poking elbows as they undress too close is nice too, something familiar, just like the way they settle into something more, of hands on hips and chins tucked over shoulders and faces hid against necks and mouths and fingers meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Room

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty sure this is just glorified curtain fic. Warnings for lack of capitalization and utter fluff. If you’ve been keeping an eye on our wip amnesty posting at [the blog](http://hostagesfic.tumblr.com/post/36824808714/zayn-perrie-danny-r-146-words-a-n-this-is-for), you saw a bit of this last week.

they fit like _this this this_. danny and zayn because they’ve been in each other’s pockets since school, because they’ve given each other black eyes practicing right hooks and because they’ve sunk themselves under each other’s skins when nothing else felt like home. perrie and zayn because they’re made for each other, the perfect fit, yin and yang and the ink and the skin and danny is the needle. or maybe zayn is the skin and danny is the ink and perrie is the needle. the medium that, instead of letting the ink pool over the skin, shoves it inside to stay forever. confirmation, approval, the medium. she’d like that, like that they could’ve done without, but _need_ her all the same. 

zayn likes that he can trust danny with her, that he’ll take care of her like zayn _can’t_ , when he’s away and sometimes even when he’s here. he even likes when danny shows it off a little; _just there, beneath her ear- not hard, just a bit of teeth... that’s it._ when they’re in the kitchen and perrie says, “hand me the-” and danny already has it, is already passing it to her, and zayn watches the smile that flits between them, secretive, pleased, familiar, and feels a little warmer in the london cold. “where’s the-” he’ll call from the bathroom, and they’ll both poke their heads in, danny’s above perrie’s, chime out the answer in unison and burst into conspiratorial laughter. 

their pajamas are all in a single drawer, roughly sorted into _danny zayn perrie_ , and perrie grins when zayn finally notices. “figured we’d unpack a bit, not like you were ever going to.” zayn doesn’t point out the difference between _unpacking_ his things and _moving_ danny’s and moving _in_ hers. it’s nice, means they all have to huddle around the armoire at bedtime and sort out perrie’s underwear from zayn’s tees, danny’s boxers. the bumping knees and poking elbows as they undress too close is nice too, something familiar, just like the way they settle into something more, of hands on hips and chins tucked over shoulders and faces hid against necks and mouths and fingers meeting.

when zayn goes on tour, perrie is stuck in london. they’ve been recording for the new album, doing press on and off, and she feels successful but not overwhelmed, like she always expected. little mix will probably never be one direction, and perrie is alright with that. sometimes she wishes that one direction weren’t one direction, when zayn comes home twenty pounds lighter and she finds him in the bathroom at two a.m. combing bleach through his bangs with a toothbrush and when danny has to hold him down and bite his lip till it bleeds to get him to come the first time they try making love after he gets back. 

danny is stuck in london too, but london is danny’s home, and he _fits_ here, in the house that was danny and zayn’s before it was danny and zayn and perrie’s. he stays busy, work and the gym and his family, and every time she or zayn asks, he says he’s alright. perrie has seen the look on his face after zayn signs off skype, though. she knows.

;

"hi," perrie breathes, and zayn laughs, fuzzy-soft across the atlantic, "hey, babe. y'arright?" "oh, fuck _off,_ " perrie moans, and squirms down on danny's fingers, clamps her thighs around his waist like she'll pull herself into his lap if she can. she might, this desperate, and zayn knows, he _knows_ and he shouldn't tease her like this, but he does and it gets them all off so. he doesn't stop. "i _miss_ you," perrie whines, and zayn is tellingly silent for a second, says, "miss you too," like he wishes he were on speaker. danny curls one hand around her knee and presses her leg up gently, and perrie makes a small sound right up against the phone. he looks at her, yes? and perrie stammers, stutters, "kay, kay, here," and shoves the phone at him, covers her face in her hands. 

they fuck like that, perrie's hips cradled in danny's lap, her hands fisted in the sheets. he folds her leg up to her chest with one hand and she hitches the other at his waist, lets him fuck her in soothing rolls of his hips like they have all the time in the world, his head tilted into his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear.

;

danny fits to her back easily, steadies her hands with his own fingers around her wrists, his palms warm. perrie thinks of how much strength is in those bones, these few sinews, the slender dip of his fingers between knuckles, and shivers. she never sees it when she looks at him, the countless matches that zayn's told her about in hushed tones, pride welling deeper in his voice for danny than it ever is for himself. 

but she can feel it, sometimes, rippling in their touches. when he settles a hand at her waist on the way into the club, and flashbulbs are crying out for attention and perrie isn't even famous here, not for herself, but everyone wants a piece of _one direction_. but all she can feel is danny, warm and steady through the crowds and the lights. 

when they make it inside, she stops, blinking, disoriented, and it's danny who finds zayn like a compass pointing north, nudges her forward with fingers at her elbow and a nod of his chin. she knows it, certain and fixed, when she watches them together, the way that zayn lets himself be open to danny the way he is only to the seven of them ( _the incredible seven_ , she thinks). lets himself be open and opened, danny's fingers at his ribs like keys in a lock that splits zayn open at the seams, free to say the quiet, awful truths of their bedroom; _i need_ and _i want_ and _i am begging_. it's then, when he's defended and wrestled and won, that perrie can look at danny and see it, the way it's written in his face, _fighter_. 

so danny fits to her back and doesn’t shy away at how she spills lube all down their thighs, cool and runny through their tangled fingers. he sweeps it up off her skin with light touches and perrie shivers, knows her eyes are wide like a child’s. zayn says, “s’arright, pez,” and reaches forward to rub his knuckles at her knee, reassuring, and perrie wonders if this is something she can give, should give. if danny will think that once she can, does, he won’t need to; which isn’t true or anywhere near, because zayn will always need danny. perrie knows she’d never take up his place, that the whole of her can’t come close to filling up the space zayn has carved out in himself for danny. 

“I’m good,” danny says, whisper-hushed against the shell of her ear, and he swipes his wet thumb over the pulse in her wrist, soothes the pounding. “you can do this.” and perrie knows he means, _show me how brave you are, you’ve never backed down before,_ and perrie turns her head to meet his eyes, and she knows he means, _you’re a fighter, too._

;

if perrie and danny are fighters, zayn is a lover. full of pretty words half-awake and held between their bodies like secrets, full of pretty pictures he chokes out of the paint and charcoal and oil pastels on rainy afternoons, canvasses spread across the living room like corpses of the ideas he’s had and discarded. he sings in the shower, clunky lyrics smoothed out in his voice, _my clique_ , and danny and perrie glance at each other over the kitchen counter, over his orange juice and her crossword puzzle, and smile. 

danny says he’s fallen hard for everything in his life, and perrie can see that. perrie and danny know what zayn doesn’t, that the world can see it too. _the boy who loves too deep_ , and wears it on his sleeve. 

zayn loves like ink seeping under your skin, and perrie always forgets if, in her metaphor, zayn was the ink, and that’s why it makes so much sense; or not, but the fact remains. zayn loves like the punch of the tattoo gun and the burn and itch of a new tattoo, something that stays with you long after the feeling itself fades. when they start dating, perrie thinks, _it will take the knife to cut it out, this love, when it ends_ , but now she thinks perhaps even that would not fish the threads of zayn’s love out of her. 

she looks at danny and she _knows_ it would not.


End file.
